


Riding Crop

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [44]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Object Insertion, Orgasm Control, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>Sherlock tries something new on John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Crop

He quivers, naked on the bed. Sweat and breath, the smell of leather, choking and hot. The brush of air on sensitive skin. Blindfold is tight, making his ears itch, damp with the building of sweat on his temples, sliding down his nose. He can see nothing but he twitches at every creak of floorboard, every hush of moving air. Stray inhalations shifting about the room. He swears he could hear heartbeats if he tried.

"John."

Inches away. He feels the brush of breath against the skin of his neck.

"John. Spread your legs for me."

He does, shifting his knees outwards. He is on all fours and he is aware of his cock, hard and obscene, bobbing against his belly and leaving trails against the hair there, some form of lewd garden snail dragging traces of itself behind it. The cotton sheets slide against his knees, the mattress pushing against his fingers, pushing them back so that he aches to clench his fists against his palms.

"John," Sherlock says, and he feels the breath against the small of his back now, in the pooling of sweat gathered at the base of his spine. "A little bit more."

John huffs, but does so, and he hears the chuckle of approval in return.

"Good boy," Sherlock says, and John rolls his eyes behind the blindfold and clicks his teeth together in an effort not to speak.

Another chuckle, this one low and wicked and Sherlock's voice from directly behind him, standing now. "You're going to pay me back for that one later, I presume."

Another huff of breath and he's rewarded by the faintest touch of something cool and smooth against the back of his thigh.

"Later," Sherlock says. "I'll make you tea."

John doesn't respond. He is fixated on the single point of touch, the single cold point of contact. He rolls his hips waiting for more and the movement makes him feel incredibly exposed with his legs so far apart, something more crude than he'd intended.

"We're working on commands today, John," Sherlock says, and as he speaks, the cool leather tip of the riding crop slides up the inside of John's thigh. "We're working on how well you listen." The leather reaches the juncture of thigh and torso and John feels the edge of it brushing the bottom of one testicle, a teasing tickling presence and he fights the urge to close his legs. 

"Now," Sherlock says. "Stay very still, John."

John hadn't asked. Hadn't asked what this would be about. He wonders if he will have cause to regret it. He feels the soft leather, its cut edge against his sensitive flesh, and wonders if he'd made his limits clear to Sherlock when they'd discussed all this.

"No pain," he'd said. "No hitting. No biting. No restraints I can't get out of myself if I need to. No leaving the room while we're in the middle. No picking up the phone. And I'm so serious, Sherlock: _No. Pain."_

Had he made that clear enough? God, he hopes so. He is shaking at the feel of the smooth hide against his oversensitive skin. He is utterly aware of it, utterly focused on it, all his senses tuned towards this contact. It's incredible, but he's afraid. He can feel himself tensing, can feel himself getting ready to break this game where it is—

"John," Sherlock says, and John drags his reeling thoughts in, pulling in the panicked drag of his breath he hadn't realised had sped up so drastically. "I remember," Sherlock says. "No pain. Do you want to stop?"

And John struggles with his voice, with his breath. Shakes his head.

"John," Sherlock says again. "Say yes or no."

"No," John croaks, and there is the breath of a pleased hum from Sherlock behind him.

"Thank you," Sherlock says. "Now. Stay very, very still, John."

The leather of the riding crop finally begins to move again. It never loses contact with John's skin after that first touch, and now it begins to slide upwards and John inhales sharply at the first solid brush against his testicles. It is cool and smooth, sliding gently against first one ball, and then the other. Sharper edges dance teasingly and John has to resist the urge to push against it, to silently ask for more. 

For a little while it lingers there, caressing first one testicle and then the other, the leather slowly gathering the heat of his own body until it feels like soft flesh against his own, impossibly smooth. It is maddening, this limited contact. There is nothing else touching him but the mattress on his hands and knees and the blindfold tight over his eyes. He makes a noise, something high and pleading and the sound Sherlock makes in response is gentling, the sound you'd make to an overexcited animal, and it's unbearably comforting. John can feel himself settle, can feel his panting breath even out.

And when the riding crop disappears, though he makes a sound, choked and aching, he doesn't move, though the world seems to rock for a moment, gravity briefly giving up and he has to strain to keep his limbs still even as he's unsure if he's succeeding. It's only Sherlock's voice, low and steady at his back that reassures him, keeps him grounded, reminds him where he is in space.

"You're doing wonderfully, John. Just a little bit longer. I promise. Now. Stay, very, _very_ still."

There is a silence then, brief, and John strains to hear above the sound of his own heart, his breath. Something wet, he swears, but he can't be sure until he feels it, cold and wet, just touching the rim of his hole. Beneath the blindfold, his eyes go wide and he can't help the sudden twitch of his hips.

"Shh," Sherlock says. "No moving, John. No pain. I promise."

And John trusts him. Completely. He doesn't move. He feels it, hard and narrow and slippery with lubrication, the leather grip of the riding crop smooth and unfamiliar as it pushes forward in tiny increments, until John is open-mouthed and gasping, the intrusion into his body torturously slow. He feels it as it pushes past his rim, the unstopping slide of it against the sensitive flesh there. He can feel his body opening to it as each inch of it slides further in, and when it finally stops, when he is whining, voiceless and breathless into the empty air, he hears Sherlock's voice, commanding, uncompromising: "John. _Come."_

He does, with a shout that is Sherlock's name, a helpless jumble of consonants that slur and repeat themselves as he feels the heat of his release splatter against his belly. He is shaking and crying as he feels his body emptying and when he falls Sherlock is there to catch him, long arms keeping him steady, letting him gently onto the bed, and a moment later there is the slide of the riding crop pulling out of his body and John flinches at the feel of it. He feels gaping and drained and he shivers, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as the blindfold disappears and Sherlock's face is there, incredibly gentle, incredibly soft.

"Good boy, John," he says. "You did so well."

"Git," John says on a gasp, and the softness vanishes in place of Sherlock's grin. "You owe me tea."


End file.
